


A Lingering Taste

by seperis



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-18
Updated: 2000-11-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6881443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan attends a social event and reflects on his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lingering Taste

It's an old feeling, tasting faintly of bitterness that tends to never quite fade enough to be forgotten. Not one he thinks about often. But it * _has*_ faded, since he'd stepped foot in here, sliding it to the edge of his mind, ignoring for the time being. He figures, as he takes a drink of the whiskey, in a few more years, it'll be gone altogether.

He also figures he knows the reason why.

The room is more crowded than he usually likes, but he's not here for him, so it doesn't matter. To entertain himself, he compares the students and faculty--which he could beat in the ring, which would be a relative draw--perhaps even beat him, though the possibility is laughable. Then skims the visitors rapidly, dressed in clothes worth more than he can remember ever making in his life, checking them for a hidden threat. 

So it's not the most challenging thing to do. But damn, he hates these parties. And he'd've gotten away if--

"Logan."

If she wasn't here.

Just behind him, a brush of leather against the back of his neck, a delicate scent he can identify at fifty paces in a summer forest. He doesn't need to turn his head to catch her wrist in one hand, draw it down.

"We leavin' yet?"

A low chuckle.

"In a bit." She circles the couch, pulling at his hand, a smile lighting up her face. "Come on. We'll go for a walk outside. You look tense."

Which is an understatement--he's never liked crowds, especially the stupid kind. He stands up, knowing that he can be threatening without even trying and knowing she enjoys the effect more than she'll ever admit. She navigates the room with that liquid grace he never gets tired of watching, never tired of seeing the flashes of himself in her easy walk, the quick movement of dark eyes scanning the crowd always, the wary, practiced tension of her muscles even now. He'd trained her and drilled her since her first year here--it was no real surprise how much she reminds him of himself sometimes when she moves.

But it's always a pleasure to watch.

They're stopped every few feet--it's inevitable. And God knows, he wasn't designed for casual cocktail conversation, and tries to at least keep himself relatively non-threatening to the nervous sponsors, knowing Xavier wouldn't be at all amused by scattering the donors before they can pay up. But it isn't all bad, when he can keep most of the wary males at ten paces and no closer. And it's tempting to start a more open threat, when one guy gets a little too close to her, smiling a little too confidently into her eyes, voice a little too low so she has to lean forward to listen.

Acting civilized has it's disadvantages.

But there is a point when it has to end, with the brush of the guy's fingers over her arm, close to the strip of bare skin between the edge of her gloves and the short-sleeved shirt she'd taken a chance and worn, feeling her tense up like a spring about to go off.

And maybe it wasn't exactly civilized to pull her away in the middle of a sentence, a soft warning growl his only excuse, and if she pretends to frown, he can see the smile in her eyes--and her scent lightens to relief, which is what he was going for in the first place.

"Grow up," she tells him as she pushes open the door.

"Fuck that."

Outside there are more people, but the area is larger and they're spread out better. And it's more of a relief than he wants to admit, even to himself. She turns slightly, taking a breath.

"You didn't like it either, kid." He can see her face relaxing slowly once space was around her.

She frowns.

"Too many people." He sees her run her fingers down her gloved hand. "Makes me a little nervous--they don't really understand, even after the Professor explains about what can happen." Her fingers flex absently in the gloves and she plays with the edge of her scarf with nervous fingers.

All guests to the school got a briefing--didn't mean they listened. Years before, they hadn't listened so successfully that one had collapsed after touching her face when he backed her against a wall and she hadn't been able to stop him in time. Barely passed her eighteenth birthday.

The first touch since him and Magneto.

It was funny how memory worked--he could remember her scream perfectly, heard half-way across the school where he'd been very happily involved with watching hockey with the other lucky students who weren't required to be on hand this time around. 

Finding her in the garden, collapsed against the wall, her entire body shaking in reaction, pushing everyone away from her--the confused voices around them, people that blocked his access and he was so fucking close to just kicking them out of the way--and finally, dark eyes coming up to see him, widening with utter relief, and then she jerked away from Jean's hands and stumbled for him--almost falling at his feet, trying to speak through the sobbing and all he could do was hold her and tell her everything would be fine and he'd kill the bastard himself, that no one would hurt her, that he could fix it.

It was hours later, sedated, she slept in his bed where he watched her from a chair and just tried not to * _think*_ at all.

He saw Jean at the door, watching them both.

"Logan." Her voice had been soft, almost regretful. Almost. And he could have hated her for that.

"Yeah."

Silence. He knew what she would say.

"She needs you here."

That was probably the single most terrifying moment of his life, and there had been a couple of doozies it had to beat. A less concrete fear, which possibly was why it got such a high rating on the Logan shit-o-meter, because while his nightmares were bad, they were tangible. This was not--nebulous, rather sticky, written all over with the words duty and responsibility and if he fucked up, the consequences were laying right there on his bed. Someone depended on him. Needed him. God, God, God, who would be fucking stupid enough to do that?

Four hours later, he was still awake and she was still asleep and twisting on the bed and he got up to wake her and hold her hand and tell her she was safe and watch her fall asleep again with her head on his lap.

Eight hours later he was in Xavier's office and in charge of teaching a whole group of little mutants how to survive a combat experience.

He never left again. 

And for a year, he watched the sideways glances, heard the murmurs, felt the collective held breath of the school every fucking day that just grated his nerves like sandpaper. A superhero on the weekends, a teacher during the day, and sitting on the roof at night with a cigar, waiting for Marie to waken from another nightmare--sometimes his, sometimes Magneto's, sometimes her own--and go in to hold her hand until she could sleep again.

After a year, everyone's breath let out and then--then Xavier had told him that he'd found a lead in Anchorage. A man that worked in that godforsaken lab. A place where records were stored.

And everyone had held their breaths around him again, even Marie. 

Especially Marie.

He feels her hand brush his arm, a little startling because even now, its hard for her to initiate contact.

"Logan."

He shakes his head, seeing her steady gaze.

"Whatcha thinking?"

"How you'd look up against that tree." Her eyes follow his and he watches her blush, hands unconsciously running down her sides, incredibly arousing, and who knew he'd ever get a thing for leather gloves and heeled boots?

"That might be a bit--noticeable."

"Educational." He answered, sliding an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

It'd been Anchorage. That's when everything had changed.

Sitting in his room, trying to make a decision that a year ago would have already seen him on the road--then making it suddenly easier and without effort, stalking into Marie's room at one in the morning and telling her to pack up because they were having a little field trip and what the hell was she waiting for, the Second Coming, get the hell up kid.

She'd been awake, sitting on her bed, holding those tags, staring at him like he'd lost his mind. That was okay--she was a girl, she'd make a mess of packing anyway. He was done in five minutes, had her dressed and downstairs in record time, and was telling Scott--who was frankly too tired at the time to argue much--that they'd be back in a few months and see ya, folks.

It'd been a good twenty miles outside Westchester before she'd really comprehended what he was doing.

He glances briefly around the garden, seeing Jean and Scott at a distance and wondering, specifically, when it had stopped hurting to see Jean with someone else. Then down at Marie, who has translated her tension into restlessness and is shifting from foot to foot beside him.

"Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head.

"Have you seen what passes for food?" She doesn't care for the rather scary looking items the chefs had made up either--Logan had checked them out earlier, and they didn't resemble anything like food. Several would have made good target practice, though.

She won't be comfortable until everyone leaves and she can take a breath without worrying that some idiot without the sense God gave a sheep will try to touch her. Which is why he comes to these things in the first place when Marie has to attend, because the risk isn't worth a football game or two and she's fully worth three hours of sheer, mind-numbing boredom.

He runs his hands down her back, watches her eyes close slowly--and while having a little playtime in the garden would be all kinds of fun, he was pretty sure that as ideas went, it wasn't the best possible.

Yeah, it was definitely Anchorage, when it changed suddenly, and he should have expected it but still didn't and it was a hell of a shock. When he woke up in a motel room and watched her sleep without nightmares, coming to the rather interesting conclusion that when he was there, she never had them. Prowling around a few ruined army bases and seeing her dig through what could have been a fucking ton of snow with gloved hands and the peace on her face that hadn't been there since he met her.

Maybe walking in unexpectedly and stopping at the door to see a truly remarkable amount of skin in the mirror while she took a shower, when duty and responsibility had suddenly and completely been overshadowed by wanting. Her-- scarves, protective bodysuits, and smooth leather gloves and all.

Tackling her into a snowbank because at the time it seemed like a pretty good idea and kissing her for the first time through her scarf against the motel room door, gloved fingers against his skin--

\--which was around the time he really started noticing the variety of gloves you could buy. 

He gives her a grin and sees her smile back.

"Let's go."

He pulls her hand, drawing her back inside, telling Xavier they're going, who smiles and nods, and he finds the motorcycle and lets her drive because she likes to do it and he can only hope this will be one of those nights that she doesn't almost overturn it. 

They pick up hamburgers and on the way back, he stops the bike (he drives this time because she holds the food) and pulls her off and takes her for a walk. He doesn't want to go back yet, not until the visitors are all gone and Marie can relax. Watches her strip her gloves without thought and tuck them in her pocket so she can eat and marks another silent point on the scoreboard he's kept in his head since returning from that first trip.

And when she finishes eating, he turns her and presses her up against the tree, because you know, that thought in the garden has definitely lingered and gotten steadily more attractive.

"Told ya."

She flushes again, and he can smell her sudden arousal, her nervous excitement, but no fear. None at all. It's been years since she was afraid when he touched her.

"I didn't think you were serious."

And he remembers, with some amusement, watching her sit down on the bed in the chill Alaskan afternoon and telling him it was dangerous. Her eyes hadn't met his and it was pretty easy to ignore her reasons when he could smell the truth on her.

So it's dangerous. Yeah, so the fuck what. Everything's dangerous when you save the world on weekends and Marie is the part that makes it worth it. Her smile when he draws her scarf across her throat and bites her lightly, feeling the brush of her hair against his face, fingers sliding off his shoulders, pushing his jacket down.

He remembers the first time he made love to her--hell, with that term, he could very well call it a first time for him on that too--not in Anchorage but in Calgary, gamely following backwards the route of her childhood dreams, in a nice hotel downtown. She watched him with huge, frightened, utterly trusting eyes when he undressed her. And finally, all that experience with sex, he who'd done everything and seen everything, had paid off big time and no one could say he wasn't creative.

Danger was the spice of life and he wonders sometimes, in the back of his mind, if fucking anyone else would end up being pretty boring in comparison.

He didn't plan to test the theory or anything, though.

So he pushes her up a little higher and drapes the scarf over her mouth so he can kiss her and feel the fingers tighten on his back, a booted heel locked around his calf. He slides her skirt above her hips, feeling how warm she is through the hose, cutting them open with a single slide of metal that hurts these days in a way he's learned to like, running gloved fingers down the inside of her thighs to hear her gasp, breath against his cheek, forehead pressed into his shoulder now, the hand on the back of his neck, over his shirt, gripping hard and her nails pierce the cloth, and edge of pain he enjoys. And her other hand, with remarkable skill unfastening his jeans, a brush of skin a shock to them both but so brief that it can't hurt and she hisses when she picks up those surface thoughts.

So sometimes on purpose he lets skin touch--he likes the effect it has on her.

And she finds the condom in his pocket--he's officially reduced to carrying one everywhere after that very bad night in Winnipeg where he ended up at five different convenience stores and thoroughly scaring at least six cashiers stalking around the aisles very possibly resembling a hired thug looking for something to kill--too close to the truth at that point. And still with one hand--and she's gotten so good at this it's fast as hell and never breaks the mood at all--she gets it on and lowers herself and he takes a deep breath and concentrates on something besides her and how she feels around him because one thing never changes, no matter how many times they've done this.

It's always incredibly good.

"Logan." She breathes it against his ear and he braces an arm by her head and finally begins to move inside her, long legs locked around his waist. Feels the quiver of her body, the scent change, tilting her head up so he can look in her eyes, watch every reaction of her face, the bitten lip, sliding the scarf over her so he can kiss her again. The heel of one boot digging into his back and he grits his teeth because he _*really*_ likes that and she knows it.

Sometimes it's a slow burn, a build they can keep up for what seems like hours, but when Marie releases tension like this, it's always fast and hard and she looks up at him with that signal he always watches for, slides both hands down to her hips and then--

\--God. She'll have marks on her back for days from the bark through her shirt.

He's never sure what she says--and he has tried to listen but never catches all of it, though sometimes he vaguely recognizes his name--the tension increasing so fast it's a knot in the pit of his stomach and he knows he's telling her things he'd never, ever say otherwise--how wonderful she is and how good she is and how much he wants her and sometimes he even tells her how much he loves her and never, ever wants to lose her and hopes to God she hears it somehow because he's never managed to say it other than now. And finally, feeling the sweat break through against his lips when he bites her shoulder, feeling her come hard, and if anyone was nearby and asleep, they'd be very awake now--and sliding flat against her when he does too--and anyone who managed to get through the first wouldn't through the second--and they both slide down into the grass, staring at each other in shock.

"That--was a good ride," he whispers against her ear and she laughs, biting him through his shirt.

"Same to you."

And it's awhile before they finally slide apart and get up, fixing their clothing, picking up his jacket, brushing the leaves from her hair and watching her slowly pull her gloves on and give him a wicked smile and slowly saunter off, though he knows just how sore she is. Watching her wince a little when she gets back on the motorcycle--at least she doesn't want to drive now.

When they get back the guests are gone and they get upstairs without being stopped, which is all to the good because he can smell himself on her and is completely uninterested in conversation for any reason when she's right there. And she flips the light on when they walk in their room and sits down to pull off her boots.

"Leave them on."

Startled eyes meet his, then they lower slowly and she can still blush.

He remembers the relative ease he was able to arrange everything when they arrived back from that first little trip. Simply deposited her in his room that night and moved her things in the morning. No scary long talks about relationships and togetherness, though he remembers distinctly that slightly surreal moment when he knew they were really together for keeps when he came in and found her sorting his clothes into two distinct piles--one pile destined for the trash can downstairs.

And the shopping, which as far as he's concerned is the only proof she'll ever need that he'll stay, because eight hours in a godforsaken mall with her and Jubilee should rank right up there in the category of heroic endeavors.

Looking at her when she pulls her gloves from long fingers with her teeth and reaches for the pair in the nightstand, custom made of the thinnest and finest leather he's ever found--that faint bitterness is almost gone. So he can't leave, is locked in one place for as long as she's here--when he needs to run he takes her with him and has her eyes on him when he needs the release that only a good fight can give and know what will happen after in that motel because she gets as high on it as he does.

So it will fade, over time, because looking at her, he knows she's worth it.


End file.
